Then There's You
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: Suddenly finding themselves on the run together, Sarah and Devon learn to cope with tragedy. T for implied violence and themes. Sarah/Devon.


**Disclaimer:** I am sunburnt! And do not own Chuck. Just thought you should know.

**A/n:** Um, so basically... I stumbled upon this little Non-Canon Ficathon over on LJ. And I have never written Sarah/Devon before, never done a comment ficathon before, never attempted this style before... but um, here? (For casterlys. Prompt: _so ready for us_.)

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><p><strong>Then There's You<strong>

It's a part of the job, they know that, they all do. That doesn't mean they really think it will happen – that it will happen to _them_.

That one day you're sitting with your husband and his sister and a few friends at a god damn dinner party, and Serbian terrorists come crashing through the windows and doors, screaming about revenge.

Sarah remembers stealing secrets from them, remembers laughing a little as she repelled down the side of the building.

She thought from time to time that her – their – line of work would come to haunt them, but not like this, never like this.

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><p>And everything is painted red...<p>

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><p>She shows up at the hospital in a borrowed trench coat and hopes there's no blood on her face. The nurse gives her a quizzical look when Sarah hastily asks to see Dr. Woodcombe immediately but points her down the hall anyways where he happens to be standing, signing charts.<p>

"Devon," she says breathlessly at once.

He's about to grin and say _what a surprise_ and _what are you doing here_, maybe give her a hug and ask why the dinner party ended early. But her hand grabs his wrist and it's painted red and he stares and she hauls him into the nearest storage closet.

"They're gone. They're all gone. And we have no time."

_Never enough time._

And he doesn't get the chance to say anything at all. Couldn't, probably, even if he wanted to.

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><p>He doesn't comment about how fast she's driving and she returns the favour by pretending she doesn't notice the tears streaming down his face. <em>(She'll cry later, locked away and private.)<em>

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><p>Ellie's blue sweater was in the back seat of his car (which they ditched three cities ago) and he's still holding onto it.<p>

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><p>They never bring it up if they don't have to.<p>

She gets that. _Push it away_, and hope that someday you can get past it, somehow accept it. Except this isn't something either of them can just _push away_.

Because three months later and it still stings like it happened yesterday. And she remembers the way Chuck lay crumpled on the floor, four bullets in the chest, and she follows Devon's lead: _just push it away_.

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><p>He's sitting on the edge of the bed with that old sweater in his hands, thumbs moving in circles over the faded blue fabric. Like she's just left the room and will be back any moment with a bright smile, asking if she can have her sweater because the air conditioning is too cold.<p>

Sarah gently touches his shoulder after he looks up at a noise in the hallway of the hotel.

He turns to face her, aching and broken and she knows she mirrors him.

"She's gone," he says. "She's really gone."

_They both are._

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><p>Six months after <em>that day<em> (the day the world stopped turning, the day they had to disappear), when she's dyed her hair dark brown and he's let his grow kind of shaggy, she wonders idly what happened to Casey. She saw him shot, but then she couldn't find him in the aftermath and knows he must have survived. If he survived, she wonders why he never found them.

Then again, she is an expert at disappearing.

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><p>It's late – or early, you could say – and she's still awake. She still doesn't sleep if she can help it because she can't stand the nightmares. It makes her feel like she can't breathe, makes her feel like her soul shattered all over again and she's tired of being perfect at compartmentalizing emotion.<p>

He rolls over to face her, blue eyes shining.

"Why…" he trails off, unable to finish, but she knows what he's trying to say. _Why didn't you just leave me, why do you let me tag along with you…_

Or maybe what she wants him to ask: _why do you look at me that way…_

"Because we're the only ones left."

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><p>And finally, eight months after <em>that day<em> (the day they all died, the day they lost everything), the only good news since: Casey finds them in Montenegro and says it's over. The Serbians – every last one involved – are gone. The organization that funded them, their ties, their buildings, their bombs and drugs and guns.

"What took you so long?" she quips and almost smiles, but the muscles feel rusty and she stops, not ready to feel happy again.

And he makes some crack about her hair, grunts something slightly underhanded or implying about Devon, but she glares and he backs off. (Of course she's had thoughts along those lines, and maybe he had too, but it was eight months and that couldn't be enough - _no time would ever be enough_.)

He only needs one more month or so to clean things up completely and the CIA will fix her record.

"It's really over," Casey says again as if to make sure she really heard and understood him.

"Thank you."

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><p>They hit Spain and then head up to Norway because he's always wanted to go and it feels like the one place they haven't gone yet. She tells him about Casey, and about the call she managed to get through to Beckman.<p>

"It's over." She repeats Casey's words and can't stop the tears of relief that blur her vision.

He cradles his head in his hands and his shoulders shake – shoulders that suddenly don't look like they're holding the world on them (alone) anymore.

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><p>Things take a little longer than Casey expected, and so it's a little less than a full year since <em>that day<em>.

And it's late again – or early, as usual – and of course, she's still awake. But not because of nightmares now, no. Because suddenly the grief isn't so claustrophobic (it's not gone, of course, _never gone_) and she feels like she might be alive after all.

And then he turns to face her, blue eyes shining.

Devon reaches for Sarah, lips finally crashing to hers.

_He's aching and broken and she knows she mirrors him_ - except maybe now some of the pieces are coming back together.

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><p>The morning after, she finds herself finally smiling, ready to feel happy again.<p>

**-end-**

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><p><strong>An:** Thanks for reading! Any and all feedback greatly appreciated, especially for this random little piece of inspiration. ;)


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